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Remembering a Bad Day

Encouraging mental health and dispelling the stigma on mental illness is a passion of mine. From time to time, for this reason and in the interest of transparency, I discuss my own experiences with mental health/illness.

This is a page from one of my old journals. Trigger warning: self-injury.

Finally, I could breathe. It felt like I had been holding my breath for months and could at long last, exhale.

With every cut came ecstasy.

With every healing wound, the cold realization of what I had done.

I wasn't ashamed, but I knew my family would be disgusted. And that hurt. Why couldn't they accept that I couldn't digest my emotions and cope with experiences like I used to before?

Before. Before was a long time ago. Before the sickness. Before Borderline and anxiety and depression and high school and my parents' divorce.

I'm in recovery now. It's been years. But every once in a while, there's an itch beneath my skin that I fear only a razor can scratch.